Sunlight Moonlight

 One of the things I miss most about living in Alaska is the light cycle. Whenever I tell people I lived in Anchorage for several years I get the same question:  How did you stand the dark? The real answer is that everyone stands the dark because they know summer is coming and the dark will be pretty much banished. It all equals out.

But the truth is, I never had to “stand” the dark. I loved the weirdness of the shortest days of the year. I’ll never forget my first morning in Anchorage, looking out on a snowy December 2^nd at 9:30 a.m. and seeing people at a bus stop, one person shoveling a sidewalk, and three more strolling casually along, as if it wasn’t pitch dark, snowing and illuminated by streetlamp. I was more astounded yet when, after the briefest showing of visible daylight, the night crept in around 2:30 p.m.

Truly weird. To an Outsider.

But I grew to love the short winter daylight. Not as much as the short summer moonlight, but the eleven dark months had their charm. And their usefulness.  (Okay, so it wasn’t dark for eleven months. Eight maybe. It just seemed like eleven.) But I loved burrowing into my little condo from October to May and learning how to use the time and the sense of being in a cocoon to become more productive.  It was in the long dark mornings and afternoons that I learned to write. I mean, what else was there to do besides put my nose to the grindstone and produce? Heck, I wrote three books during Alaskan winters. That was a dang good author apprenticeship!

And, there was summer. Glorious, 20-hour days of sunlight (when it wasn’t raining), and time for exploring, gathering information, doing research. I came up with multiple future plots during the stunning Alaskan summers. They are a dreamer’s paradise!

So here I sit, 15 latitudinal degrees, give or take, south of Alaska, and we have no such extreme cycles, but I could use one of them. It’s my unscientifically proven fact that there’s more time to work in Alaska than there is in Minnesota. I just sent in a rather ambitious proposal to my agent, who sent it to my editor, who has hinted that she loves it. But, if it’s accepted I’m warned—the books will need to be produced like that one recent famous movie:  (The)Fast and Furious(ly). I’m not known for my fast and furious writing ability. I need fewer hours of daylight in which to waste time.

See why I need a hermit month in an Alaskan winter?

Of course, it could be I just need a little self-discipline.

But an Alaskan adventure is more fun to think about. Somebody would find me a nice little bat cave (not literally) in an Alaskan basement or cabin, wouldn’t she?

And, if I were to come tomorrow, maybe I could get some lessons in how to promote two books coming out right in a row. What the heck—might as well throw in another first world problem:  how does one deal with back-to-back releases?

A problem to solve in another blog.

 Meanwhile, I really do have two new books coming out back-to-back. I’ve even got the covers to show you!  Whatcha think? As my editor said, “I’m not usually in favor of putting more clothing ON a cover model, but in these cases I think it’s well worth it.” And, I agree—I prefer leaving something to the imagination—and I can tell you, I’d definitely like to delve under these t-shirts and jean jackets. Guess what? The heroines in my two do more than delve . . .

Check ‘em out if you like:  both books are available for pre-order!  “Beauty and the Brit” releases September 2^nd and “Good Guys Wear Black” on October 14^th.  I’ll figure out how to promote them in the next couple of weeks – but suggestions are welcome! 

That’s it, since I can’t really wax any more poetic or dramatic on Alaskan daylight and moonlight. I’ll just end by saying—if one of you, my Alaskan buddies, finds me blinking in the dark on your front porch one night, you’ll know why.

--- Liz Selvig

https://www.facebook.com/LizbethSelvigAuthor

Everything I Learned about Critique Groups, I Learned from Alaska

I got hit with a sobering and depressing reality check just the other day. I lived in Anchorage for three years. It seemed like a goodly amount of time if not NEARLY long enough. And to this moment it looms in my memory and my heart as if I left yesterday. But I didn’t. I’ve been back in Minnesota for five years.

Five years! Sob.

So much has happened in that time, but one thing hasn’t changed. I feel as close to my friends there as I ever have. They might not know it, but they are never ever far from my heart. Ever. I wondered why this is, and the answer came to me without me even trying. The people of Alaska are as big of heart, as varied in riches and gifts, and as unforgettable as Alaska is herself.

Things (all things—tasks, working, shopping, playing) move just a little more slowly in Alaska than they do Outside. I don’t mean things are “slow” (as in short bus slow), but there’s an ease born of a “Hey, what’s the rush? Where are you going to go?” attitude you won’t find in states where you could, potentially, get out in a hurry. This applies to friendships as well. There is/was SO much time to cultivate closeness. I’ve never experienced anything like it.

Alaska Chapter of Romance Writers of America - early years

And my friendships spilled over into my then baby seedling of a career so that my writing became my joy because my friends were with me. And they (my friends) also became my critique partners, and I hung on their words and advice, even when I crossed my arms and pretended I didn’t want to hear them . And the more I got to know these friends’ secrets and true selves, the more their experiences and insights shaped my own. We were a band of sisters made up from many stripes and backgrounds and beliefs, but I had the time and space to learn from them all, and love our differences.

Let this sound like a mere exercise in being maudlin, I promise there’s a reason for my schmaltzy words. When I had to leave Alaska it took a big chunk out of my heart. Let’s don’t even talk about missing the land itself—that’s another blog topic entirely. It was the people I couldn’t stand leaving behind. But here’s the thing—I took them all with me. I didn’t realize it for a long time, but I eventually figured it out. I learned so much about working together and taking time to appreciate everything about a group of friends, that I can’t thank Alaska enough for giving me the opportunity.

I have a new critique group here in Minnesota. There are only four of us and still, it was very hard to start this group—it felt awkward and disloyal and not close for a long time. But I went back to the memories of Alaska and remembered all the big-hearted things I learned in the big-hearted place I still love: patience, admiration for differences, listening, taking time—lots of time—and seeing other peoples’ strengths. I learned to love my new critique group because I still love the first one. Everything I learned about how to make this work, I learned from Alaska.

See, she has a big, sharing heart that way!
So, salute to all my old CPs (AKA Best of Friends) still slogging away up North. Here’s wishing everyone a chance to fall in love with the people of Alaska just as I did!

--- Liz Selvig

I Am Not an Imposter
By Liz Selvig

The definition of being a “real” writer at its most basic is simple—when you write and that’s what you want to do, you’re a real writer. In our profession we’re always looking for the satisfaction of publication, it’s true, but deep down we know that if writing is at our core we’ll put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard whether we are published or not.

So, I here stipulate that all of us reading this blog, with exceptions for our friends and non-writer fans, are writers. My question is: what makes us feel like real writers?  

Some of you have felt “real” from the moment you wrote your first word and that’s as it should be. Me? I still feel like an imposter most days. I love to write—or, more accurately, I love to have written, because the actual writing is hard. But writing a book in my case definitely takes a village—and some days I feel like I’m just an actor in front of other people watching me play a part. After my first book came out I thought I’d feel cool. Like I was walking with giants. Hah! I felt like I’d won a special backstage pass to watch the cool writers be cool. I visited. I smiled. I shook a few hands. Got a few autographs. Then I was just me again. Not a cool kid.

I know its poppycock. We’re each on our own journey. We’re each cool. I had a list of goals similar to that of my writer friends and I’d met them:

1. Finish a manuscript
2. Enter a contest
3. Win a contest
4. Send out queries
5. Get an agent
6. Sell a book.

Any one of those steps defines a real writer—even in the commercial sense. So why did I still feel like I was pulling one over on the writing universe?

I rode the wave of fun that accompanied the release of my first book and I even signed a handful of them. I got some nice reviews and compliments from friends and family. It was all great. And then the wave broke as waves do, and I had to go back to grindstone—as writers should have to do. And there I stalled.

Several writer friends published second and even third books. Numbers for them soared and promo for them continued. At RWA and RT they had piles of several different books. I was promo-ing the same thing. And I was, like, waiting for the book fairy to come down and give me another book (preferably without any help from me). Barring that, I needed at least a kick in the shorts and a lecture to get the dang book done.

But I was a fluke. A one-hit wonder. I was competing even with my own good reviews. 

Finally, finally I wrote and revised and slogged my way through a second book. I turned it in and waited for my agent and editor to come back with a gently worded Dear John letter. “Yup—you wrote a lovely book—now go back to your day job.” 

Of course that didn’t happen. I have a lovely new book, “Rescued by a Stranger” coming out in three days. And I admit, once that second book had been accepted, I honestly felt like real writer. I would be multi-published. Legitimate. Not an imposter.

But even as I basked in that feeling the little noggins in my brain started. Other real writers had more friends on FB, they were debuting at #3, #2 even #1 over at Amazon. They had fans, they had street teams, they had their acts together, and I didn’t know what the heck I was doing promotion-wise. They, they, they …

...and it smacked me upside the head. I was and have always been measuring being a “real writer” with the yardstick of comparison. I saw what I perceived as “real” and believed if I hadn’t done the same things, I wasn’t yet legit.
 
It’s a crock. Which, of course, most of you know. This is the secret: we simply ARE real writers. We don’t have to try. There will always be someone doing something different, having more or less success, reaching a goal we’ve set before we do. It doesn’t matter. Comparison is the kiss of death. Comparison shuts writers down. Don’t compare yourself to anyone. Liz.

Young Liz - working on her writing

What’s it mean to feel like a real writer? I’ve discovered exactly what it is—believing that you have a story to tell and loving that story whether one person reads it or 100,000 people read it (one of my goals, mind you, despite my advice). It’s being able to say just to yourself: Hi, I’m (insert your name here) and I am a real writer!

So 'write on' my real writer friends—you each have an incredible gift. Don’t waste time analyzing it—I already (over)did that for you. 

The RWA National Meeting on  Extrovert-ism

(and 6 hours of Sleep)

 

 As I write this it is just edging past midnight on Thursday (morning) of RWA 2013. I’ve been here in Atlanta since 10:00 a.m. Tuesday morning and, truth to tell, I have very little recollection of packing to leave home or the trip to Georgia. All I can say is, it’s a good thing I’m a night owl, extroverted, and run on the energy I gather from people during the day because this has been a truly interesting start to a conference!

The run up to this trip really began three and a half weeks ago when I got edits for my second book back from my editor and a deadline of July 15.

Since my brain is getting older by the day, it took me a week of editing to realize this was going to take me right up until I had to pack for the conference. So, I planned my editing schedule to finish a day early. I did well on this plan until the last week, when the wheels might not have come OFF the bus, but one of the tires went very flat. 

Suffice it to say, that due to a couple of family issue and some previously scheduled obligations, I watched the sun come up on Monday morning the 15^th after a full night session of giving my manuscript a final read-through. I watched the sun come up, took a three hour nap and then finished the last of the work. I did get brownie points for meeting my deadline. But I didn’t have a stitch of anything packed for Atlanta.

So, good thing I’m a night owl, extroverted professional procrastinator.

I’m used to pulling projects together last minute. I started hauling things out of my closet, matching folded clothing items by color to make outfits and plopping them into a suitcase hoping against hope I’d remember most of what I needed.

I got bags packed and plants watered and dog brought to my son’s house for dog-sitting...and fans running in the basement (oh, yeah—hubby is at Boy Scout camp this week and the basement flooded a day before deadline J ).

I spent the night at my parents’ home so I could be at the airport at 5:15 a.m.

As I said, there’s very little recollection of packing. Or sleeping. Or getting to the airport! But, I must have done all that, because I did arrive safely and it’s been an amazing two days so far.

What’s my point in all this? It’s that no matter how insane the lead-up to RWA, how many necklaces that match earrings you forget (that would be three) and how many half-pairs of earrings you bring (that would be two) or how little sleep you get (that would be eight hours in three nights) it is so very worth it to be at this meeting.

Granted, I wouldn’t recommend this prep routine for a first time conference go-er, but this is my sixth time and there’s little to get my undies in a bunch about anymore.

I am just thrilled to meet up with some old friends, to be making new ones and to just sit in the wide open bar area and watch the writers chatting, laughing, joining up and hugging.

The energy is full-on; inspiration just plain floats through the air, and I already want to head home and just start writing my little fingers off.

Can you tell I enjoy coming to this? This is our professional organization in all its glory. There are controversies and there are opinions about things but, mostly, there are kindred spirits. And that’s the real reason I come. My life would hardly be ruined if I didn’t come, but it would certainly be missing a little spark that comes with hooking up with the mother ship once in a while.  It really is a cool place to be—even if I only managed to bring one of those favorite swirly dangling earrings with me – dang it!

 Next year’s RWA is in San Antonio. If you’ve never come to the meeting or only come once in a while, I hope you get the chance soon.

 There are spots waiting for us in the bar. J

--- Liz Selvig

 

 

The Three Legends of Valentine's Day

By Liz Selvig

In honor of yesterday being Valentine’s Day, I’m going to break the current string of Alaskan themes here on the Alaska RWA blog and share a little Valentine’s history. I promise this isn’t boring history – it contains bits of legend, a dose of intrigue and, of course, a whole lotta love.

 

Nobody knows for sure when, where or how Valentine’s Day got started. The Catholic Church claims three saints named Valentine. One was a priest from Rome. One was a bishop from Terni. One died in Africa. All three are said to have died on February 14.

Most church history points to the Roman priest Valentine, martyred in the third century, as the Valentine for whom the holiday was named. The legendary “mists of time” have made tracing the exact truth impossible, but three main legends have survived to explain the beginnings of our modern Day of Romance.

The first legend claims that in In 496 AD, Pope Gelasius decided to turn the Roman festival of Lupercalis/Lupercalia, a pagan fertility celebration observed on February 15, into a Christian celebration to honor martyrs of the faith. He named his holiday after St. Valentine and moved it to February 14th, the day before the old celebration.

A second story, one embraced by both Catholics and Protestants, says Valentine was a bishop during the time of Claudius II, who amassed huge armies of young men to help him in defending his vast empire. Claudius II believed that married men made poor soldiers because they missed their families and fought half-heartedly, so he banned marriage. Bishop Valentine disagreed with this policy and took pity on lovers who desperately wanted to be together. He would bring young couples to a secret place and unite them in marriage. When he was caught and imprisoned, he refused to renounce his faith or his belief in the rite of marriage so he was put to death for his beliefs.

The third legend tweaks Bishop Valentine’s story. It says that once Claudius II found out about the secret marriages, he had Valentine arrested. While in prison, Valentine healed his jailor’s blind daughter and fell in love with her. In a sadly Nicholas Sparks-ish ending, just before Valentine was put to death he sent his love a letter expressing his adoration. He signed it, “Your Valentine.”

With tissues in hand, I have to admit that, as a romance writer, I have to go with the reverse Romeo and Juliet as my favorite story. The idea of a kind-hearted clergyman, willing to sacrifice himself so true lovers can live happily-ever-after just warms my soul a little. He’s my idea of a saint!

We’ve come a long, long way since then. Valentine’s Day is no longer a religious holiday and lovers the world over embrace the romance of the day. We’ve made chocolate (long associated with having aphrodisiac qualities), flowers, greeting cards and sexiness the hallmarks of February 14th. Statistics say that 190 million cards, 110 million roses and $1 billion worth of candy (75% of that chocolate) are purchased annually for Valentine’s Day. 

It’s pretty amazing that, in light of what might seem like crass commercialism, the spirit of Valentine’s Day has never changed: lovers, mentors and suitors bringing romance to a world that will never have enough of it.

And, as romance writers and readers, haven’t we just known that forever?

I hope you all had a wonderful Valentine’s Day—may your love fests continue even now that the 14th of February has passed.

--- Liz Selvig

Cinderella Stew

This is a sorta-kinda-almost Cinderella story. Mine. Only it’s a stew-like mishmash because there’s no evil stepmother, or ugly stepsisters, or a King and Queen trying to marry off their Prince (hmmm, yummy plot, though). In the story I am rescued from scrubbing floors and doing laundry—but since I’m not actually forced to do those things normally, it’s not a big plot point. No pumpkins turn into carriages (although I turn into a pumpkin at midnight with enough Sex on the Beach. Hey now, clean up those minds—it’s just a drink), and no mice turn into horses, but Nashville does turn into the home of The Mouse.

My story does have a grand ball, but there are eight fairy godmothers (five writing peers and three editors who will forever be faceless and nameless). There’s no glass slipper—but there is a pretty golden necklace.

There’s also a shameless back story—forgive me for not weaving it in, but this isn’t a saleable manuscript anyway. In November I entered a contest—a fairly big one called the Golden Heart. In March I got a call telling me I was a finalist. I hadn’t been planning to go to the fancy ball where they celebrate the GH even though everyone else in town was going. But after March I knew I had to join them.

The ball began with a week of amazing preparations and events. If you’ve never been to an RWA convention (the official name of The Ball) it is an occasion of amazing energy and excitement. Over the course of several days, two thousand writers converge and start to mingle, network and meet new friends. It sounds cliché but—it’s dead easy to make friends at an RWA convention. All you need to do is lift your eyes and say ‘hello,’ in the elevator, at the registration desk, at a bar, or around a fountain. I walked up to one woman out of the blue and said, “I love your name, it’s perfect for a book.” We struck up a great conversation, exchanged cards and I hope to contact her when I get to contacting people (which is a completely different subject).

Aside from random writers, there are also celebrities. I saw, to name drop a few: Cherry Adair, Susan Anderson, Christina Dodd, Eloisa James, Kristan Higgins, Nora Roberts, Debbie Macomber, Jayne Ann Krentz … Mind you, these were mostly fangirl moments—Susan, Christina and Eloisa aren’t my new BFFs—but they are our Michael Jordans and seeing them, especially to say ‘hi,’ is awfully cool.

Workshops abound at the RWA conference, as do parties. If you want to know about a certain publishing house—there’s a spotlight for that. If you want to know about women of faith writing in the secular market—there’s a workshop for that. If you want to know how to make your urban fantasy more attractive to agents—there’s a speaker for that. And, if you belong to any group – there’s probably a party for that. The Beau Monde ball for regency writers; the Steam Punk ball for fantasy, futuristic & paranormal writers; the Harlequin pajama party for category lovers; Death by Chocolate for Kiss of Death members. Join a group—have a party!

My partying centered around that Golden Heart contest final. Sixty-six talented writers finaled in ten categories and we all joined an online chapter called The Golden Network exclusively for GH finalists. The group holds its annual meeting and “boot out” ceremony, where they kick out all members who’ve published and make them alumni. They also held a workshop featuring an exclusive editor/agent panel. RWA held an official Rita/Golden Heart reception full of great desserts and a chance to really meet all the finalists and mingle with roving editors and agents.

On that note, I think the most important skill I honed this year was how to schmooze an editor or agent. There are funny stories (my best being the agent who approached me, asked for my pitch, excused herself in the middle of it with an apology, promised to come back, came back but didn’t ask for any more of the pitch. Either the Mickey ears I forgot I was wearing were a REALLY bad idea—or she was friends with an ugly stepsister I don’t know about). Anyway, let me share my personal list of opening lines. (Look at this as a really bad bar scene):

• I loved what you said in your panel discussion
• I love your agency’s website
• I love your philosophy of the publishing industry
• We have a mutual friend
• How do you do this all day? I’m very impressed
• How is your own writing coming?
• It’s a pleasure to meet you
• I put a big star by your name in my notebook after the panel discussion
• May I look up your guidelines on your website?
• Thanks for the rejection

I honestly used every one of those lines. And, BTW, the ‘thanks for the rejection’ actually got me a request for my Alaska series. You have to be shameless I guess.

Finally, the week culminated with The Actual Ball, aka the Rita/Golden Heart Award Ceremony. It’s not a secret that I won my category, and I’m still in shock. But just for the record, this event is a must-do if you go to conference, whether you’re up for an award or not. Wanna see RWA’s version of Oscar night? This is it.

To end my Cinderella Stew story, I’d like to share what it was like to actually win the Golden Heart. All kidding and silliness aside, this is one of the biggest honors of my life so far and, darn it, it was fun. I remember most of it—but it’s kind of like a slideshow in my brain that goes like this:

*People asking all day if I’m getting nervous and me saying unequivocally ‘no.’ *Sitting at the banquet table with a note card, writing a list of people I should thank should the unbelievable happen. *Deciding writing any kind of note is a jinx. *Tucking the half-finished list away in my purse. *Not caring at all if I won because it’s an honor to be a finalist. *Deciding, after seven winners are announced that, no, I really, really want one of those necklaces. *Sitting stock still except for my ping-ponging heart and my knuckles bracing white against my teeth while they announce my category’s finalists. *A crazy, far-away voice saying, “And the Golden Heart goes to --- “Songbird” by Lizbluth blub blulb mumble mumble …..” *Finding the unfinished list in my purse. *My mouth hanging open as I stand up and walk to the stage. *A very cute cameraman grinning at me as he points the lens at my face. *Holding up my dress hem and not tripping on the stage steps. *Catching a glimpse of myself on the Jumbotron—totally surreal. *Realizing they were right at the rehearsal when they said we wouldn’t be able to see the audience. *Saying “Wow.” *Seeing exactly one face in the middle of the front row: Vicki Lewis Thompson—her gorgeous white-blonde hair glowing like a guardian angel’s. *Realizing that with her beaming at me, I had nothing to be nervous about.

Applause and a huge hug from my presenter, Roxanne St. Clair surrounded me—it felt like a hug from a big sister! A small but mighty ‘whoop’ from Jenny, Boone and Lizzie when I said, “Alaskan sisters” carried all across the ballroom. And then I had the necklace in my hand and was floating back to my table. A constantly streaming prayer in my head went, “ThankyouThankyouThankyouThankyou…” In fact, that’s still going on.

Okay—enough already. Cinderella ended up with a way-better equivalent to the glass slipper. She got home well after midnight without the gown turning into rags, and Prince Charming was waiting at home—but he was waiting. And when he hugged her a day later he said, “Well, I guess going to THAT party was worth it.”

Oh yeah, it was. And while my experience this year happened to be golden—don’t wait for something like that to send you to the RWA Ball. Friendships, schmoozing, classes and parties can turn anyone’s trip into Cinderella stew. And that’s a mighty fine-tasting treat!!

Happy Fairy Tales Everyone!

Liz

Stranger in a Strange Land

I like a rut as much as the next person – a comforting, familiar routine where you can accomplish a lot because you know what you’re doing. On the other hand, I hate a rut as much as the next person – living with hamster-wheel dull days and a lack of inspiration as you take the same steps over the same terrain.

So, which emotion is more powerful? For me it depends on the day or the project. If things are going well, I see no need to change the routine. However, if I’m spinning my hamster-wheel, well, it’s time to think outside my comfort zone and head for new territory.

I’ve always felt sorry for people who aren’t willing to TRY something new and different if what they’re doing isn’t working. I’m not talking about Über-Efficient people whose processes work for them all the time. (I only know about three of those people anyhow.) I’m talking about those who follow that definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

Very very often that’s me in a nut(case) shell. So, for my next project I decided to take my squeaking hamster wheel to a strange land. Let me begin by explaining that I LOVE the world of Pantsing. I love the discovery of random conversations leading to the next situation in my story. I love an organic process where I let my characters think for me—tell me their story as I do nothing but data entry. Unfortunately, most of my characters talk just as much as I do. And they like pretty scenery just as much as I do. And the book just kind of goes on and on -- story in there somewhere.

I realized, I don’t wanna deal with editing another book where the last half contains a solid plot and the first half must be edited to fit. Not that it can’t be done-I’m living proof it can. I just don’t wanna.

So my new destination is a place called Plottingland. At first my little hamster wheel rolled down streets I sort of recognized: What Color Are Your Hero’s Eyes Avenue and How Does the Book End Lane. But then we got into the heart of the new country and my wheel tipped over after hitting a plotting board. Let’s just say, Toto, we weren’t in Pantsingworld any longer.

I looked around a landscape of precisely marked-off grids, piled with neat stacks of sticky notes and instructions carefully labeled: Character sketches, Setting sketches, Beginning, Middle, End. And three words that scared me silly: Goal Motivation and Conflict. How the heck was I supposed to navigate this neighborhood? It was Beverly Hills compared to the redneck chaos I’d come from: a place where characters pop out from somewhere in the junkyard of my imagination. How could I possibly know goal motivation and conflict before I’d written the dang story?

And then I found my first guideline. It was, horrors, a “template.” A series of who-what-where-when-how-why type questions that, when filled out, gave me a one-paragraph sketch of My Book. Amazing! Before I’d written a word. And that led to a one-page character sketch, and a full page summary and … and I’m still here in Plottingland working on figuring out my story before even writing the first line. And you know what? It’s fun!

It’s also been several weeks and I still don’t speak “Plotting” very fluently. And there are moments I search desperately for a way to fix my hamster wheel and flee back to Pantsingworld. But I haven’t. I’m planning to stay a stranger in this strange land a while longer, just to see if I can make this something different work.

Okay, this may have sounded like a pitch for that tired old writer’s subject, pantsing vs. plotting with me taking the plotting side. No way. Trust me, my right brain hates me right now. What I want to do is encourage you to try rolling away from that comfort zone when you feel stuck or are tired of the rut that keeps you safe but spinning the wheel. If you’re a pantser—follow me. If you’re a do-or-die plotter, don’t say you can’t do it any other way: set a timer for fifteen minutes and write a scene out of order. Or a chapter. Or, gasp, a character sketch. You never know—your new strange land may end up full of wonderful new friends—and books!

What have you done lately to “think outside your comfort zone?”

Liz Selvig